


Painkillers

by touchmymachete



Category: Mötley Crüe, The Dirt (2019)
Genre: But mostly fluff, Drug Abuse, Drug Withdrawal, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 08:02:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20254855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchmymachete/pseuds/touchmymachete
Summary: "It hurts.""I know it does, Nikki." His voice is soft. He's pitying me, I know he is. I can feel it. I can hear it in his fucking tone. "I'm sorry you're going through this, Nik, I really am."





	Painkillers

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuses, I just wanted some hurt/comfort for these two. Inspired by The Dirt's Crüe, but feel free to interpret them as you will!
> 
> Cheers to my second submission! * raises a can of beer *

Waking up was slowly becoming the worst experience I've ever had to get accustomed to.

I'm up before the sun rises again, my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth for what feels like the umpteenth time this week. Month, maybe, but I can't remember how long it's been since I've fallen into this nasty habit and it feels less scary when I say week, so I stick with that instead.

"Hello?" A feminine voice greets, formal and friendly.

My head's a storm of intense, throbbing pressure and each swallow prickles with the lack of moisture to ease the motion along. I stifle a gag as I open my mouth to reply,

"Patch me through to Doc."

The receptionist hums after a beat of silence, and her confusion is tangible. "Pardon?"

"Doc. Doc McGhee," I rasp, hand coming up to slap clumsily against my face and rub across my eyes, "patch me through so I can talk to him." I pause. "Please."

"Uh... Ah!" She perks up. "Mötley Crüe. Okay." I hear the shuffle of papers through the line as she assumedly sifts around for Doc's room number. There's nothing but quiet fumbling for another good thirty seconds or so before she's speaking into the receiver again and rattling my brain without even knowing it. "And- well, I assume you're calling from the-"

"I'm the bassist."

"Er- right. One moment, please."

And then-

_Silence._

I can't help but sigh, letting my free arm flop back onto the bed like a sack of concrete. Doc manages to pick up on the third ring, which might have struck me as impressive hadn't I known he was all business all the time. Fuck being a vampire- the man was straight out of Nordic folklore.

"This is Doc," he greets, and- what the fuck? He doesn't even _sound_ tired-

"Painkillers," I moan.

"What?"

"Doc, the painkillers," I repeat, sounding more and more like I was on my deathbed with each passing word, "where th'fuck'd you put 'em?"

From the other line, Doc scoffs. "Not a chance, Nikki. You know the rules."

"The rules never stated I couldn't have painkillers!"

"The rules stated you couldn't have any kind of drug at all, _period_," he replies, tone clipped. I grit my teeth.

"Doc, I don't- Listen, you don't _understand_, man-"

"No drugs. No painkillers. No _ifs, ands, or buts_. You gotta kick the habit, Sixx, you're a corpse these days and the tours are going to start taking a nose dive. You got water with you?"

"Yeah," I groan.

"Good. Sip that, get some more sleep. I'll call back in a couple of hours."

He doesn't wait for me to answer, but I wasn't going to anyway. The sound of him settling the phone back into its cradle prompts me to follow suit, though I can't seem to reach far enough out before my hand is falling to hang limp over the side of the mattress; taking the receiver with it. It dangles by the cord, dial tone blaring, but I can't find the strength to properly resituate it.

Sleep comes to me after a little while, and I slip into unconsciousness to the dull hum of the phone in the background.

\\\\\\\\\

"Nikki."

I'm sweating. Fuck, I'm sweating buckets. My body can't seem to pick between feeling too hot or too cold, flashing between the two extreme temperatures and leaving me dizzy, panting; writhing in my sweat-soaked bed sheets.

"Give me those fucking painkillers," I seethe, cradling the phone to my ear like it were the last thing on Earth to save me from this agony, "Doc. Doc, _please_-"

I hear him sigh, but it isn't the usual soft, disapproving sound that I'm used to hearing. Its irritated. Tired.

"Nikki, it's three in the morning-"

"I need them. Shit, fuck- I think I'm dying Doc. It feels like I'm fucking dying."

Doc hums thoughtfully. "I can only imagine," he says, and I want to punch him in the teeth right now. I want to kick his shit in, make him bleed. Make him feel the god-awful things I'm feeling. "See what happens when you start becoming irresponsible with your career, Nikki? If you'd have distanced yourself enough from the wrong crowds, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Fuck you!" I spit, fingers like talons as they curl into the receiver. "Y-you think, you just assume that I just- Christ- Just bring me the goddamn pills!"

"This is for your own good," Doc says with finality, like he's got some kind of authority over me. Fuck him. _Fuck him- _"Would you feel better if someone were there to keep you distracted?"

My blood boils. "Don't you dare, asshole. Don't you even fucking think about coming up here empty handed-"

"Vince? Tommy?"

I consider his words, jaw snapping shut. As much as I hated Doc in that moment, _as much as I fucking hated him,_ I couldn't deny the fact that something- anything- to keep my mind occupied was welcome. More than welcome, even.

"They bringing me the meds?"

Docs huffs. "We'll see."

The call ends abruptly, and I'm on my feet running to the bathroom to wretch into the toilet not even a moment later.

/////

_Knock, knock, knock._

"House cleaning!" Someone snickers from the other side of the door, and I wish I could ignore it. I wish I could tell whoever it was to fuck off and turn on my side, ignoring their continued attempts to get my attention and fall back asleep like I'd been able to so many times before.

Instead I'm jerking up as fast as my weakened state would allow me, sauntering towards the door and swinging it open before the person has another chance to start knocking again.

"Woah!" It was Tommy. His eyes were wide, hand poised mid-air as if preparing for another barrage of hard-knuckled wraps. Slowly his fingers unfurl and he grins, but the smile is wiped away just as quickly once he takes in my appearance. "Nik," he breathes, eyes flitting down to my feet and back up again. "You kinda look like shit, dude. Doc said you were having some issues, uh-" He pauses briefly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Everything good?"

"Do you have them?"

He blinks. "Have what?"

"The painkillers, _Tommy_, the thing Doc said he'd send you up here for," I whine. I'm clenching and unclenching my hands rhythmically, and Tommy's gaze zeroes in on this when he replies,

"Sorry, man, he didn't mention anything about painkillers. Just said you're feeling a little down in the dumps."

"I'm gonna kill him," I snarl, and Tommy purses his lips.

"Nothin' wrong with feeling a little blue, man, everybody gets that way sooner or later-"

"_I'm gonna kill him._"

"Why don't we..." Tommy trails off, stepping forwards. He's suddenly in my personal space but I don't have the motor skills to move away, and soon enough he's pulling his hands free to gently curl them over my shoulders. He crowds even closer, his slight pressure moving me back so that we slowly start navigating away from the door frame and into my hotel room. Immediately his nose wrinkles. "Dude, it stinks in here."

"I've seen better days," came my quiet reply. Tommy's hands slide down to my upper arms, squeezing softly, before they drop back down to his sides. I miss the contact, but I don't comment on it.

"So, I mean- Well obviously, I wasn't called here to party," he snorts, smile claiming his features once more. Happy, happy. How was he always so _happy_? "What's goin' on?"

I considered lying. Telling him I'm fine and ushering him back out the door so I could suffer in peace. The last thing I needed was someone like Tommy trying to mother hen me, but the longer I entertained the idea of kicking his ass back to his own room, the more frantic I became. I didn't want him to leave, I realized. I didn't want to be alone.

"I'm sick," I say.

Tommy visibly recoils, a grimace marring his face. Confusion swirls through my brain like smoke until I'm hit with the revelation that he thinks I meant _sick_ sick. Cold sick. Desperate, my hand darts out to wrap around one of his wrists like a snare.

"No, wait- I'm sick because I haven't had my fix in a while," I stammer quickly. Tommy seems to relax then, but his attention shifts to my fingers holding his arm in a vice grip. He nods, brows raised.

"I can feel that," he murmurs, glancing back up. My hands were sweaty, and from the way his skin felt like ice compared to mine, I could only assume I was hotter than an inferno. Fuck- I _feel_ hotter than an inferno. "It's been a few days, huh?"

"Do you have anything, man? Anything on you? Blow?"

Tommy winces. "Sorry, Nik." He hadn't brought anything, had he? Not even his fucking drumsticks.

"I'm gonna die," I whisper. I stagger back and Tommy is quick to catch me, keeping me steady on my feet.

"You been feeling like shit this whole time we've been touring?" I hear him ask, but I can't focus on the question. Instead my mind hones in on the firm palm on my back, the long fingers holding my hip. My head lolls forwards until I feel my nose smash uncomfortably into his collarbone, pulling a startled noise from his throat.

This is nice, I think. We're already pretty close but I step even closer still, smoothing out the seam between our bodies until I'm resting all of my weight on his lanky form.

"Nikki?" His head must have been angled down by my ear then, warm breath tickling the feverish skin. I shiver, and he sucks in a mouthful of air.

"I'm gonna die," I say again, because it's probably true.

"No, no," he murmurs, and suddenly the hand on my back is moving, rubbing slow soothing circles. The one on my hip slides around my waist, helping support my ragdoll body, and I reach up with shaky hands to fist them in his tee shirt. "It's all good, Nikki, it's okay. Just relax." He hums, and I feel like a complete idiot, standing here with my drummer trying to console me. The last thing I needed was him feeling bad for me, so I tell him.

"Stop talking like that. I don't want your pity."

"What? Who said anything about pity? C'mere," he huffs out a laugh, pulling me impossibly closer. I'm confused about his intentions, but it finally dawns on me that he's asking me to hug him back. I don't know if I can. My arms feel like they might have locked up like this.

"_Come here_," he repeats himself, and gingerly I release his now-rumpled shirt, arms bending just enough to hook beneath his and wrapping him up in a feather-light embrace.

The gentleness doesn't last very long.

Soon I'm constricting around him, clasping at his back for all I'm worth. He's patient with me, even as my fingers sharpen into claws and dig at his ribs, his shoulder blades; ripping and shredding and holding on for dear life. He's rocking us back and forth, a quiet hum slipping through his lips despite the obvious pain I know he must be in, and a hand is pushing the damp hair from my eyes when he coos,

"You'll be okay. You aren't gonna die. I'm right here, see? I've got you, man."

My stomach rolls and I fear I may vomit on him, but with all the contents of what I'd previously had in it flushed down the shitter, the most I can do is heave. He freezes, fearing a mess, but picks up his pace again once he's sure he's in the clear. I heave again, eyes watering, and he runs another apologetic hand through the tangled mat of sweat and hairspray on my head.

"It's okay. It'll be okay," he whispers, and I sob.

"_It hurts_."

"I know it does, Nikki." His voice is soft. He's pitying me, I know he is. I can feel it. I can hear it in his fucking tone. "I'm sorry you're going through this, Nik, I really am."

I don't reply. I can't. My throat's clogged, teeth clenching so tight I'm sure they might shatter from the force.

"Here- Nik, hey," He says, hands trailing the expanse of my back. It feels good, _so_ good against the searing pain that I whimper when he starts pulling away, struggling weakly to envelop myself back in his heat.

"Tommy-"

"Hey, hey. I'm not going anywhere baby, calm down," he's hushing me, hands fluttering worriedly over my sides. It takes me a moment to register the term of endearment but when I do my form goes rigid, his quick to follow suit. His hands freeze in their motions, and despite the awkward tension, I'm moaning pitifully at the lack of movement. "Sorry, old habit," he amends, but I don't care. I wouldn't care if he fucking kissed me, at this point. Anything to keep my mind off of withdrawals.

He says "let's lay down," or something like it, and before I know it I'm walking backwards again, staggering clumsily through the dark until my legs brush against the edge of the bed. My knees buckle instantly but Tommy's hands are strong; helping to gently rest me against the filthy mattress.

"Gross," I complain, and Tommy only chuckles as he leans down to swing my legs up onto the comforter. My arms are next, Tommy carefully minding the bruises and track marks that run up and down the lengths of them, and it's not until he's stepping away that I find my strength again and shoot upright in record time. "Tommy, don't-"

"Hey, hey! Shh, hold on," he soothes, closing the gap between us quickly so that he can press a hand into my chest. "I'm not going anywhere, just lay down."

Reluctantly I do as I'm told, the pang of fear still simpering in my veins. I watch as he shucks himself bare from the waist down, and I fight the urge to ask questions when he leaves himself in nothing but a shirt and a pair of plain underwear. He throws his torn jeans somewhere close to the foot of the bed, and suddenly there's a warm, comfortable weight dipping into the mattress behind me.

"You should try and sleep," he says, but all I can focus on is the long, bony arm draping itself over my middle. I can tell he's being cautious with the way his touch is a ghost of a feeling, a phantom of pressure, and it bothers me. I don't want gentle, I want a firm presence. I want to know he's there.

"Will you stay the night?" I croak, voice hoarse. 

"I'm not going anywhere," he repeats, and I believe him. I've always trusted Tommy, even though I gave him plenty of reasons to never trust me. I didn't deserve someone like him, but I wasn't about to push him away; not now. Not when I felt like jumping from the hotel room's balcony. I didn't trust myself, but I did trust Tommy. I trusted him with everything.

I wiggle back until I can feel his warmth seeping through the thin material of his shirt, and it's not until I press flush against his chest that he tenses uncertainly. The weight from his arm gets a little heavier, I notice, and then it curls around me; fingers rising to tuck into the crux of my neck and shoulder.

"Sleep," he murmurs into my shoulder, and even through my haze of discomfort, I'm still able to register the brush of lips against my shoulder blade. I reach up and grip his arm with clammy fingers, still shivering despite the combined body heat.

"You better not leave," I say. He smiles, I can feel it on my skin.

"I'll be right here, the whole way through," he whispers, and for some reason it feels like he's insinuating a little more than what's happening right now. I hope he's being genuine. I hope he means it. "We'll get through this."

"I'm not joking around-"

"Uh huh. Shut up," he chides, and I do.

I was afraid the silence might drive me up the wall again, but Tommy's fingers were restless as they traced a burning trail over my collarbones, tickling over the flesh of my throat and jaw. It was still a distraction, and a nice one at that, and by the mercy of some higher power I was able to relax; the jitters and desperation steamrolled by the overwhelming sense of security I was wrapped up in. Groggy, I nearly miss the gentle press of lips against my shoulder again.

I don't deserve him, but I'm grateful he's here. Sleep doesn't claim me for a little while after that, but when it does, I'm at peace. Maybe not physically, but with Tommy here to help me through this madness, I'm feeling like I might have a chance to overcome this after all.

"I'm sorry I didn't bring you any painkillers," he mumbles off-handedly, almost like it was an afterthought. I manage a short laugh.

"Sure you did."

"Ah?"

I wanted to roll my eyes, but the action would have sent pain searing straight to my brain, so I settle on saying, "you, idiot."

"Me?"

"You're the fuckin' painkiller, man."

When Tommy laughs again, it's nervous. Flighty. I almost expect him to pull away, but he decides to hug me tighter instead; pressing me snug against the warm expanse of his chest. Despite the agony that tears through me when I do, I laugh with him. It hurts, but I don't care.

"Just go to fuckin' sleep, dude."

And I do, with a grin on my face and a system full of painkillers. (Thanks for coming through, Doc.)


End file.
